


To Pluck the Moon from the Sky

by wyanmai



Series: Burning Snow and Purple Dawn [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29955096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyanmai/pseuds/wyanmai
Summary: On the eve of her departure to marry Rhaegar in King’s Landing, Elia Martell lies abed with her lover and allows herself one last night of indulgence.
Relationships: Elia Martell/Original Character(s)
Series: Burning Snow and Purple Dawn [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108049
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	To Pluck the Moon from the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> From Chapter 34 of Burning Snow and Purple Dawn: Did Elia love Paten Dalt? Not sure if there’s really an answer in this one-shot, but I do hope it’s at least somewhat enlightening. And if nothing else…smut?

_279 AC_

_Sunspear_

“This will be our last night.”

The silken colours of sunset unfurled along Elia’s chamber walls, reaching through the lattice windows to dapple rosy light upon the floors. Amid the soft glow and cool linen sheets, Elia slid her foot along Paten Dalt’s muscled leg, feeling the wiry hairs yielding beneath her skin. She rested her head in the crook of his shoulder and did not look up to see his face. Still, she knew he frowned.

“For now,” he said, his strong hand tightening on her arm, drawing her even closer into him. She liked that. He felt safe. “I will come to King’s Landing when I can.”

Elia would leave Sunspear the next morning, setting off on a ship to King’s Landing. She was to be betrothed to the silver prince. She was to be queen someday. Surely this was the sort of dream young girls always nurtured in their heart of hearts—of romance and chivalry and a glimmering crown set amidst their hair—but Elia had never been a dreamer.

“No,” she breathed, the very speaking of the word scraping at her throat. Nor was she was a fool.

“No, you must not come to King’s Landing. Or Dragonstone, when I will live there. Not ever.”

Her words did not shock him—did not draw indignation or pleading from his lips—only made him breathe an unsteady breath and press his mouth to her forehead. Paten was no fool, either. King’s Landing was not Sunspear. The Targaryens were not Dornish. Even once she had done her duty and provided the dynasty with sons, there could be no straying from her husband’s bed. Not for a queen.

“I am yours to command, princess. It will be as you wish.”

Elia shut her eyes against the sudden sinking in her gut, and when she spoke her voice was mere wisps of cloud in the rich Dornish sky.

“You know it is not what I wish.”

Her duty had naught to do with her wishes.

Paten was silent for a spell, then he reached to tilt her chin up to face him. In the deepening light his eyes were clear and hazel and endless as the Greenblood when it was scattered with sunbeams. This was what she would leave behind, Elia thought. Home and blood and Paten Dalt’s aching eyes.

“I am but a man with a little keep and some acres of land. But princess, if you wished to hold the moon, I would find a way to pluck it out of the sky. Anything you want, anything in this world…you need only ask it of me.”

Oh…. _oh…_

Was he…did he mean that he would…if she wished…

Elia knew she should not even allow such a possibility to slip into her mind, and yet she could not help herself. They would need to go beyond Essos, she knew—past the Slave Cities and the Dothraki Sea—yet Paten would find a way. He had never failed her. She needed to be sure he meant what she thought, for all that it was a child’s fantasy that could amount to nothing at all.

“Your sister is frail and cannot bear children,” she said, testing him.

He did not frown in confusion. His face hardly shifted at all. She had been right. Of course she had. He spoke in riddles like this, forever curving and dancing around his true meaning, yet Elia understood him every time.

“My brother can wear the Dalt name as easily as he wears Sand. Or perhaps your brother would see fit to attaint my family should I commit this crime against him.”

Elia’s breaths came shallow and light as the flutter of moths’ wings.

“The Dalts have held Lemonwood for longer than memory,” she whispered.

He smiled then, his hard face easing, his cheek dimpling, and Elia felt her chest flush and her belly squeeze.

“And what is memory compared to your wishes, princess?” She bit her lip, for now her heart hurt, and she did not know how to make it cease. He sighed then, breathe escaping like hope from his chest.

“But it is not what you wish. Not truly. I know that.”

He knew her, had looked at her and seen the tender, stubborn core of her since she had been seven years old. He had found her near tears, standing over an injured, trembling bird that looked beyond saving, yet he had not voiced a single word of doubt. He had helped her nurse the creature when even the maester had shaken his head, and together they had set it free amidst the pomegranate trees once more.

He knew her, and knew what her duty was to her. It could never have been.

He knew her, and Elia had never wished so fervently that he did not. Silly girl. Had she not understood even as she gave him her maidenhood that there was no future to be found within his embrace? Why, then, did her throat still ache with hollow regret?

“Enough of this,” she said, more to herself than to Paten. She slipped her hand from his arm to his taut chest, drinking in the heat of him.

“The sun has not yet set. There are many hours yet before dawn.”

He held her gaze as he circled her waist, lifting her atop him as if she weighed nothing at all. Elia did not like remembering how thin she was, how frail, and yet it was irresistible when he held her like this, like she was feminine and delicate and treasured above all.

She gave a soft gasp as her breasts pressed to his chest and the rough hairs there made her nipples harden against him. His hands were everywhere at once, smooth and callused, strong, but never demanding. Always probing, asking.

“It will never be enough,” he said, and his voice had roughened as his touch spread fire over her thighs and buttocks and back. “But I will take all you give me.”

She kissed him, licking the smooth lines of his lips, feeling the nick of his teeth against her skin, pulling from his tongue a longing sweetness that rose in her chest and nestled itself between her legs. Their moaning breaths swelled and deepened, melding together, and when they pulled apart after a moment or an eternity, in his eyes she saw nothing save her.

Perhaps it should frighten her, this devotion that enveloped, or perhaps it should prickle her with guilt. But all she felt was safe and whole and good when he looked at her thus, and she hoped, maybe, that he could be content with what little she could give him.

He worked his sorcery on her, his hands and mouth winding her senses until she was taut and aching, desire pooling between her legs. Yet she had plans for him this night. With a will she did not know she possessed, Elia nudged him to his back so she sat atop him once more, and she could not help pressing her wet folds into his hard stomach to relieve the ache there, drawing a desperate groan.

She pressed kisses down his smooth neck and over his body, and the taste of him was better than wine, better than cream. Her head spun and her body hummed, greedily drinking in all of him when she still had this chance. And still his hands were everywhere, and his fevered groans sang in her ears.

She stopped at last between his legs, where his cock lay rigid against his stomach, viril and vital and so…beautiful. The skin there was burning and impossibly soft as she took him in her hand, and when she drew her tongue across the tip he bucked his hips and finally seemed to come back to clarity.

“Princess, you…you needn’t…” His voice sounded strangled, and it made her feel powerful somehow, to know what desire for her did to him.

“Shh,” she told him, bending to lick again at the silky shaft. Another groan.

“I am only Elia here, in this chamber, in this bed, this night. Allow me to do this.”

Elia wanted desperately to taste him on her tongue, wanted desperately to feel him linger in all her senses when she stood at the bow of her ship tomorrow with only the salty wind to hold her.

He had never denied her anything.

And later, when the violet shadows of evenfall played on the ridges of his muscled shoulders, Paten pressed slick and warm into her, rocking and stroking, impossibly slow, until Elia thought she would go mad from the decadent pleasure of it all. He laced his hands in hers, their palms pressed as one just as their chests were pressed as one, and Elia wished wildly that she might sink into his very being.

She peaked with a violent desperation, her body clutching his as pleasure throbbed through her, and when he spilled his burning seed against her womb she had never been so incandescently warm.

They spoke little that night, and slept even less, each of their bodies fevered and slick and reluctant to untangle from the other’s intoxicating touch. Yet eventually, the treacherous fingers of morning crept above the sandy city, just as it did every day without fail. The dawn chased away that faithful blanket of star-showered night, and beneath the garish beams of the rising sun, Elia walked from her chambers alone.


End file.
